


Crash and Burn

by QueensJenn



Category: Ylvis
Genre: Anxiety, Brotherly feels, Gen, Panic Attacks, Pranks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueensJenn/pseuds/QueensJenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bård thinks the crash of the 15 million NOK sculpture falling to the floor will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.</p><p>(Takes place during/after this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJJsnF8Kz3Y)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash and Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Important: Takes place in an alternate universe where neither of them have wives and kids.

Bård thinks the _crash_ of the 15 million NOK sculpture falling to the floor will haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

 

It only takes  few seconds, but it feels like a million years; the statue falls then there’s nothing, _nothing_ they can do, it’s done, it’s over, it’s too late, everything is ruined. He doesn’t remember being rushed backstage, but suddenly he’s there, and everyone is talking in hushed, tense voices, and he doesn’t know what to do.

 

“- _who the fuck joked with the strings--”_

 

_“--have to do something--”_

 

_“-oh fuck it’s the artist--”_

 

He presses himself flat against the wall and tries his best to look calm; like if they can’t see how fast and shallow his breath is or how hard his hands are shaking, they’ll get through this somehow. 

 

He catches Vegard’s eye and then looks away. For once, this isn’t something his big brother can fix.

 

(Besides, Vegard looks like he’s about to throw up and _fucking hell_ that’s the last thing they need, but he’s prone to it, he’s never handled stress well, so it could happen and--)

 

“You need to go out there and say something. Entertain the people while we figure something out.”

 

Fuck. He thinks he’d rather throw himself off the platform. 

 

( _You wanted this,_ the little voice inside his head reminds him. _You wanted this life)._  

 

Bård swallows. “Do we play this as serious, or a joke or what?”

 

“It’s not a _joke!”_ roars the artist, his howl of anguish cutting through Bård’s already-raw nerves like a fucking chainsaw. “It’s not a joke!”

 

And now he does look to Vegard, mouthing _help me_. Vegard only nods toward the stage, his expression impassive, and it takes everything Bård has to climb the steps. 

 

“Just say something,” Vegard mutters.

 

 _You say something,_ Bård wants to shoot back but it’s not the time, they’re already on stage and everyone is staring at them, a mixture of confusion and embarrassment and (he’s quite sure) hate in their eyes. The broken pieces of the sculpture are still lying sadly on the floor. _They could have at least swept it up_ , he thinks wildly.

 

“S-sometimes, things don’t always go as planned.” Is he speaking? He thinks he’s speaking, but he doesn’t recognize his own voice. “We’ll be back in two minutes.”

 

Then it’s back offstage again, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to get back out again, but Vegard is already calling for the guitar, and shoves it roughly over Bård’s shoulders.

 

“Sondre Lerche,” he says.

 

“What?”

 

“We’re doing Sondre Lerche. Get out there.”

 

Bård wants to protest, wants to say that he can’t sing, that he can’t possibly play because his _hands are fucking numb_ but this is showbiz, this is what they chose, there’s no way out. 

 

(Except there is, it’s all over now, they’re the laughing stock, there’s no coming back from this)

 

Vegard is doing the introduction, and for a moment, Bård hates him.

 

Somehow his hands are on the guitar and they find the chords by muscle memory alone because he can’t even remember how the song starts, and then there’s a commotion and all he can think is _oh fuck, not again_ before suddenly they’re being hugged and everyone is laughing and _why is everyone laughing?_

 

A prank. It was all a prank. 

 

Someone is shoving flowers into his hand and he pastes a grin on his face (he’s sure it must look a little manic; he thinks his face might crack and break). He forces himself to laugh, yes, yes, very funny, you got us good. 

 

A prank.

 

~~~

 

Bård doesn’t remember the rest of the show. He thinks it went well. It probably did. It’s over and he’s sitting in the dressing room, and he knows he needs to get changed and get out to the lobby, but undressing is too much work and standing up is too much work and even thinking is too much work, so he’ll just sit here forever, thank you very much.

 

 _Crash_. _The 15 million NOK sculpture falls to the floor, shattering into a million pieces._

 

“Bård?”

 

_Crash. The audience goes silent, staring up at them in shock_

 

“Bård? You in here?”

 

_Crash. The artist runs onto the stage in hysterics_

 

“Bård?”

 

_Crash. It’s over, it’s all over, they’re done --”_

 

“Bård!”

 

He blinks. Vegard is standing in front of him, eyebrow raised. 

 

“Crash?” he whispers, and throws his arms around his brother’s waist, resting his head on his stomach. He’s shaking now, all over, and there’s something bubbling up in the back of his throat that might be a scream or it might be tears, he doesn’t even know anymore.

 

Vegard sighs. “It’s okay. It was just a prank. Everything’s okay.”

 

“It wasn’t funny,” Bård whispers, and oh fuck, those are tears, and suddenly he’s sobbing into his brother’s chest like a baby and no matter what he does, he can’t seem to stop. “It wasn’t funny,” he repeats, over and over, as if that makes it any better.

 

“I know it wasn’t.” He can feel Vegard’s hands smoothing and stroking his hair, and somehow that makes it _worse_. “It was fucking stupid, and cruel, and unfunny. But we have to get dressed, they’re expecting us out there. We have to go out there and laugh as if it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to us.”

 

The sound Bård makes as all the air rushes out of his lungs is somewhere between a squeak and a sob and under different circumstances, it really _would_ be funny. “No, no no,” he begs. “I can’t go out there, don’t make me go out there.” 

 

Vegard crouches down and just lets Bård cling to him as tight as he can, like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver as he shakes and cries and nearly hyperventilates, making soft, soothing noises and rubbing his back in slow, wide circles until the quiet chant of “no, no, no,” tapers off and he goes limp. 

 

“It’s okay,” Vegard says at last. “It’s over now. It was just a prank.”

 

“It wasn’t funny.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Bård’s voice is so soft, Vegard has to strain to hear it. “I’m tired, Vegard. I’m so tired.”

 

At this, he pulls away and Vegard is struck by how _haggard_ he looks. They’ve been working almost non-stop for years, clawing their way to the top by sheer volume; he can’t remember a time went they weren’t filming or touring or performing. They’ve taken more than their fair share of hits for what they have, both professionally and personally.

 

Tonight, they’d almost seen it all come crashing down. Literally. The prank was meant to humiliate them. It was so much worse. 

 

But maybe it threw some things into sharp relief as well.

 

“We’ll take a break,” Vegard says. “Okay? We’ll take a holiday. We’ll go away somewhere no one knows who we are.”

 

Bård sniffs. “Where’s that?”

 

“Pretty much anywhere that isn’t Norway,” Vegard answers, laughing slightly. Fuck, it feels good to laugh. “Canada. America. Fucking New Zealand, it doesn’t matter. How does that sound?”

 

Bård sits back. Sniffs again. Nods.

 

“Good. Now get dressed. Wash your face.” He brushes a few stray tears off Bård’s face with his thumb. “Don’t let them see you cry.”

 

“I won’t. Vegard?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Thanks.” He hugs him again and he can’t remember the last time they hugged, that they acted as brothers and not just colleagues, and he wishes it would happen more often but not like this, never like this. “And sorry.”

 

“Sorry?”

“For...freaking out.”

 

“If you can’t freak out in front of me, who can you freak out in front of, hm?” Vegard chuckles softly. He stands up, and presses a gentle kiss to Bård’s forehead. “I’ll wait for you outside. Get changed.”

 

And after a few minutes, he does.


End file.
